You're With Me Now
by dragontattoo75
Summary: For a werewolf some humans smell better than others, so when Stiles returns into Derek's life five years after they last saw each other, Derek follows his nose, so to speak.


**This was my entry to the SWW plot bunny competition, based on this prompt: **

_**Club 69 is the new bar in town hidden away down a less traveled street. What happens when a curious 21 year old ventures in?**_

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**This was my first time writing a Teen Wolf fanfic, so thank you 35Nanou for helping me make Stiles and Derek somewhat in character.**

**Thank you Karen Ec for pre-reading and Sue273 for betaing. ****Any remaining mistakes are my own.**

**You can see my lovely banner made by ****Jasper1863Hale** here: ** tinyurl dot com/azfq75q**  


**Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf.  
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**Please note: **In this story Scott was never changed but Stiles learned about werewolfs anyway, and watched Derek as he was around, building his pack.

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It's not exactly like Scott has to drag Stiles kicking and screaming down the dark side street leading to Club 69 on Friday night. Stiles still has his fight or flight response in order, though, thank you very much, and it's two seconds from kicking in, while he's following his best friend without getting a word of explanation for their unexpected detour.

Stiles can't say he hasn't wondered about the new bar in town; he's heard rumors about it being a secret sex club and even the word 'werewolf' has been mentioned in passing. Who can blame a single twenty-one year old for being curious about that? His only previous experience with werewolves was a grumpy-looking one five years ago, and even though the specimen was sexy as hell, he was too standoffish and aloof for Stiles to approach.

"Scott! What's wrong with you?" Stiles tries to hold back his friend by his shirt, but ends up being smashed against Scott's backside when he comes to a halt, right in front of a scary looking dude scowling down at them.

"What are we doing here?" he frantically whispers in Scott's direction, before noticing his best friend's already showing the bouncer his ID and is waved inside, leaving Stiles under his full attention. All of Stiles' warning signs are blinking rapidly, even outdoing the Club 69 neon sign above the door, but saving his best friend from himself—and what ever dangers lying inside—wins him over and makes him hold out his ID, too, hurrying in after Scott.

The dark hall he enters into leads to a dark, black-walled room with blinking red lights and a thundering bass filling Stiles' body, completely outdoing his racing heart. Scott's almost out of his reach when Stiles gets a grip on the end of his shirt to keep him from disappearing, and Stiles gets a chance to stare around in wonder with his mouth open, scrambling towards the crowd of half dressed people while following Scott's lead.

He tells himself he's only here to watch over his friend, not to fulfill his own curiosity, as he gets an eyeful of rack.

Lace and corsets, red and leather.

People styled up like they're wearing costumes.

They're hot.

They look dangerous.

Stiles does _not_ fit in with his flannel shirt and hoodie, prepared as he is only for a quiet night at the movies, comforting his (once again) heartbroken best friend.

"So, care to enlighten me on what are we doing here?" he yells at Scott over the high-pitched music filling his ears and making it hard to think (not counting the hand someone just brushed over his ass).

Scott answers over his shoulder while scanning the crowd, "I'm looking for Allison."

Of course he is. Only one thing, or one person precisely, has the ability to make Scott lose his mind completely—his on and off girlfriend. At the moment, off.

"How do you know she's here?" Stiles looks frantically around, trying not to stare at all the nakedness, but instead concentrates on finding Allison, so they can get the hell out of here—all limbs and dignity intact—as fast as possible.

"Her Facebook status said, 'Party tonight at the town's wildest club!'," he hears Scott answer. "This must be it!"

Stiles nods in agreement, his eyes ending back on Scott unfortunately without any sign of Allison. His jaw is down at his chest by now, and Scott has slipped out of his grasp, striding towards the bar. Stiles hurries to wiggle his way through the dancing crowd, refusing to meet eyes turning to him as he moves, ignoring bodies being pressed suggestively against his own, hands brushing him there. He jumps when someone pinches his ass.

Unfortunately, the crowd does not agree with him in the direction he's going (stupid crowd), but presses him over to the opposite side, to the tables. One last push against his back, and he's stumbling towards a black sofa, shaped like a half-circle, where he grips the edge to stop his fall.

There might be a comfy seat under his hands, soft velvet precisely, but it doesn't really register in his mind, even though his hyperactive brain usually notices every detail; his focus is all on the guy in the middle of it.

Derek.

Bushy eyebrows, scruffy cheeks, and green eyes piercing straight through him; Stiles can't look away from his old, secret crush.

If Stiles was in a fight or flight mode before, now's the time to run his body tells him. Then Derek beckons him over with his pointer finger, and it's like he's being pulled by a string. Stiles feels his wobbly legs move closer and closer to the danger.

Standing right in front of Derek, Stiles notices he's flanked by his two regular sidekicks; Erica and Isaac. All three of them are staring intensely at him with predatory looks, like they want to eat him for supper, but it's Derek's sudden broad grin that gets Stiles' heart jumping up into his throat.

"Hello there," Derek drawls, looking Stiles leisurely up and down.

And Stiles' mouth gets away with him like it always does. "Hi," he pipes, fidgeting. "Fancy seeing you here, Derek, in a club like this, no less. I never thought you were one for dancing and sex, or sexy dancing!" He wants to bang his hand on his forehead in mortification, but manages to grip tighter on the velvet sofa instead.

Grinning impossibly wide, the man exposes a perfect white row with two sets of pointy canines. His lips form the word, "Perfect," Stiles thinks, before he gets pulled backwards into the grinding crowd again, Scott fuming in his ear,

"What the hell, Stiles? We're here to save Allison, not pick up scary looking dudes! Of all the people in here, you go for Derek?"

Stiles answers indignantly, "Hey! I'm not picking him up! I like boobs and strawberry-blond hair—Lydia! Who is here!" Stiles points to the bar in surprise where the woman he's been crushing on for the last year stands, giggling as the bartender (is that Derek's uncle Peter?) hands her a pink drink.

"What?" Scott turns abruptly, lets Stiles go, and pushes his way over there at once. Where Lydia is, Allison is most likely to be.

Stiles follows two steps after Scott before he bumps hard into leather-clad muscles.

"Not so fast there, Stiles. You're not trying to run away from me, are you?" The werewolf's dark voice rumbles its way up through his chest, echoing in all the room.

Stiles gulps, dragging his eyes up from the tempting looking muscles, over scruffy cheeks, white teeth, and up to the wicked green eyes. His body tells him to run, (Abort! Abort!) but Derek's strong hands holds him in place against his hard, solid body.

"I'm ready for the sexy dance you mentioned now." Derek breathes right over Stiles' face, the intoxicating smells hitting him right in the lust center of his brain.

"Ah, yes, right!" Stiles utters dazed. "You should go find yourself a partner, then. I can't imagine you'll have any trouble finding someone willing." He looks around at Derek's potentials, trying not to envy the lucky someone and to remember where he was really going. Scott, he remembers vaguely. Derek growls as they get pushed together by the crowd.

Stiles gasps, rambling, "I need to look for Scott. So, see you later. I'm on my way to the bar, you know, to wet my dry throat? And then there is Allison. Scott needs my help with her, he always does." He can't look away from the man's eyes as he loses control of his mouth, spewing out words.

Derek blinks for a second and looks over to the bar.

"Scott's the boy you came in with, the same one you used to hang out with? Forget about him; he's eating a girl's face." Then the man locks eyes with Stiles again.

"_Ah hell!"_ Stiles thinks. _"There's no one else the girl can be besides Allison. She really took him back that easily?" _

Stiles' attention to his whipped friend makes Derek scowl, pressing Stiles even closer. "You're with me now."

Surprised at the gorgeous man's attention to him, Stiles allows Derek to turn him around in his big arms like a rag doll. (Well, he would probably be able to even if Stiles put up all the resistance he could muster.) Pressing his chest against Stiles' back, his arms securing him in place, Derek whispers, "I'll wet your throat for you, if you'll let me."

Stiles melts into Derek's front for a second there, but the surprisingly suggestive words make him tighten up. "I'm a soft thighs kinda liking guy and ahhhh..." Stiles tries, vaguely remembering his one-sided interest for Lydia, and squeaks as a hardness is pressed against his bottom.

"I could smell the lusty pheromones you were sending my way the minute you laid your eyes on me," the man growls in Stiles' ear, then adds with finality, "You want me." His broad arms fold around Stiles' front, hands caressing his flannel-front.

"Smell me? Pheromones?" Stiles squeaks. Where's his normal verbal diarrhea when it finally can do him some good?

Big hands on his stomach, a mouth on his neck, nipping at his skin.

"Hey!" He jumps, turning to face the werewolf, gripping his throat. "Keep your fangs to yourself! I'm quite fond of my neck the way it is, thank you!"

Derek smirks down at him, baring his canines. "So am I."

Stiles rolls his eyes and the man frowns, like Stiles just challenged him. And maybe he did? Where has his fight or flight reflex gone? He's in the arms of pornstar-looking Derek (who is also a werewolf), in a club and his best friend has forgotten about him, like he always does when he and Allison gets back together—and he's kind of enjoying himself.

True, they're in a room full of people, not much harm can come to him here, right? And Stiles is a man at his best age. He likes hands on his stomach very much, fingers finding his sweaty skin under all his cloth layers, caressing and sending sparks all over him. It's not like he'll probably get any chance with someone like Derek again. Ever.

"That's right," Derek purrs, feeling the other man relax again, and when four fingers pinch Stiles' nipples, he moans out loud, startling himself with it. This is not the Derek that Stiles remembers from before, who pushed people as far away from him as they could go; this is a Derek who's changed over the last five years—Stiles doesn't know how that's happened, but he sure likes it.

Derek's hands stroke down over Stiles' stomach again and before he gets the chance to think more about it, his body arcs to make room for Derek's big hand wiggling its way inside his pants. Stiles turns his head, staring up at Derek's gleaming eyes, scruffy cheeks scratching him, and suddenly Derek's hot mouth is pressing against Stiles' lips. He's panting by the time Derek's long fingers find his dick, already hard against his stomach, and gives it a few tugs, squeezing pre-come out of the tip.

"Good?" Derek asks into Stiles' mouth.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, pushing his crotch into the warm ring of fingers, just as other bodies press themselves against his front and he opens his eyes, startled. He's forgotten where he is and what the hell do Erica and Isaac think they're doing, pressing themselves at him like that, making a werewolf sandwich out of him?

Derek growls at his sidekicks, squeezing Stiles fast against himself, and he must be very scary-looking (or perhaps it's a werewolf thing?) by the way Isaac and Erica stumble backwards and fall on their asses into the crowd around them.

Stiles is still being held tightly against Derek as he's led through the crowd, which opens for them like Derek's a king. All eyes checking out Stiles earlier are now averted and downcast; the hands brushing at him before are now hidden away, and only backs are turned to Derek and Stiles as they reach the end of the dance floor.

Stiles feels confused, but dizzy with want, his mind swimming and he can't _think_. His flight response has run away by itself, and all fight in him has melted down to the floor, just like the sweat on his skin.

He's being unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the velvet sofa, and he's able to confirm that it's indeed as comfy as it looks before he glances up at Derek, who's standing right in front of him, with his crotch right by his face, the man's dark jeans tight over the front.

"Lose the hoodie," Derek orders, pulling at the hem of it and Stiles compliantly raises his arms to help out.

"I remember you, you know," Stiles mouth speaks. "From before. You didn't use to be like this..." he circles his hand in the air gesturing to Derek. "I mean, whenever I saw you, you were always demanding and pushy like now, but never..." Stiles swallows as Derek uses his fingernail (his claw?) to pop open all of his flannel-shirt buttons in one go. "I guess you changed..." he trails off softly as Derek yanks at his knees, making him fall back in the sofa with a "humph".

"What is it that you want?" he asks, staring up at the werewolf looming over him.

Derek cocks one eyebrow.

"I can _tell_ that you want sex! But you want it with _me_? Why would you want sex with me when you can choose anybody here?" Stiles has a hard time getting his thoughts in order to get his question right when it's Derek, of all people, who's staring at him like that—so intensely hot.

Derek grumbles as he sinks down to his knees in front of Stiles, sliding up his front so they're chest to chest and face to face. "You smell good."

Derek is so close, Stiles' eyes cross as he's trying to focus on the other man.

"I smell good to you?" he breathes. "Yeah, I guess you have some super senses or something? Has my odor changed the last years?"

Derek inhales deeply through his nose, closing his eyes. "You've always smelled good to me," he growls, opening his now red eyes, focusing immediately on Stiles' tongue as he's wetting his suddenly dry lips. "Now that I've met you again," Derek drawls, his hands sliding up Stiles' thighs. "You're old enough, and you want me, too—you radiate it."

Stiles has a hard time sitting still in anticipation under Derek's scrutiny and wiggles around in his seat. "Yeah, all right," he breathes, giving in (which is not a hardship at all, really).

Derek leans the last inch forward, then, brushing their lips together, surprisingly soft given the rough man Derek is. Stiles likes it—he likes it a lot, more than he'd ever thought he would (even at the peak of his teenage Derek fantasies).

Derek's tongue is in his mouth, exploring and searching, and Stiles pants into it, pressing himself against Derek's form.

It feels like Derek devours him; he demands and pushes, and soon Stiles is out of breath and needing air, he flips his head backward onto the cushion, exposing his neck unthinkingly (but not unwillingly) to the werewolf.

Derek attacks him with gusto, growling "Yes!" into Stiles' skin.

"Fuck!" Stiles grits his teeth, feeling Derek's hand on his hard-on, quickly bringing him to seconds from blowing his load in his pants like a teenager. He tries to push Derek's hand away, but it's immovable for him, stroking and squeezing in the most perfect of ways, and then Stiles just can't hold it back—he comes in his pants! Groaning hard into Derek's mouth, he's shaking and shuddering as the man continues to stroke him.

Stiles finally manages to bat Derek's hand away as he bends down, sniffing Stiles' pants instead, pushing his nose right into his crotch. Stiles feels embarrassment flood through him, but Derek's fangs are bared and his eyes glowing red when he looks up. And Stiles laughs, his post-orgasmic high making him feel giddy and loose for a moment. Then he remembers where he is (how could he forget?) and looks around in panic, scrambling up to sit up completely.

Golden eyes.

Stares.

The dancing crowd is not moving anymore, but standing still, staring golden-eyed at Stiles.

He flails in panic. "What the hell?" he yells at Derek, looking up and is met with a smug smile. Stiles opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish, scrambling for the right words to yell from the thousands bombarding his brain, but then he's scooped up in Derek's huge arms, like he weighs nothing, and Derek parades him through the crowd, the smug smile plastered on his face. All golden eyes follow and nostrils flare at Stiles—with his come-smelling pants—as he passes, red-faced and confused.

"What the hell, Derek? Put me down!" He punches the werewolf's arm without getting _any_ reaction, tries to wiggle free, but the grip on him only tightens. "Argh! Don't go all caveman on me! Where are you taking me?"

Derek carries him past all the staring werewolves (and some humans that are just regularly nosy), through a backdoor and up some dark stairs, where Derek opens another door, slams it shut and dumps Stiles unceremoniously on a bed.

A strong smell of Derek hits Stiles' senses hard. He watches in surprise as Derek starts undressing with a smirk. His leather jacket is dumped on the floor, and the black t-shirt thrown in Stiles' face. "Hey! I'm demanding an explanation here!"

"I told you already!" Derek growls as he rips off his belt, yanking down his pants and underwear in one go, his swollen, red cock slapping against his stomach. "You're with me now."

"Okay, I can live with that," Stiles mumbles, wiggling his shoulders into the mattress to settle down comfortably, enjoying the sight in front of him as anticipation and satisfaction flood through him.

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**A/N: Thank you for reading!**


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